


The Revolutionary

by Neelh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The revolutionary and the cynic have a little disagreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revolutionary

**Author's Note:**

> Characters remaining untagged for defence of the story.
> 
> That is a really awful excuse I'm sorry.

The revolutionary stood, his neck swanlike; pale and elegant as he addressed the room. Waves of gold shone in the dim light like a halo, and his slim hands gestured subconsciously, unintentionally keeping attention on him. If his hair was gold, then his tongue was silver as he spun sentences that could bring a general to his knees. His friends applauded his enchanting words, so full of conviction for one so young. Nobody had really noticed the man in the corner, sipping absinthe slowly and watching them like an old hawk. His hair was short and his face seemed narrow due to the light shading of stubble covering his grubby cheeks. Dark shadows disguised his sharp eyes, which never left the leader of the boys.

 

"You're wrong," he said finally.

 

The revolutionary looked up, eyes wide, but they narrowed as soon as they settled on the drunk man. "Would you care to explain why?"

 

"Your words may be passionate, but you can't connect to those you need to inspire," began the drunk man, gesturing with his bottle. "The people of the land, the ones working for little pay to keep them and their families alive, won't listen to a group of students. Or they will, and they will agree, but not when it matters most; when you begin a revolution and die within the couple of days you have. They don't have the passion and recklessness, because they have lived the lives that you vow to save them from, and frankly, they don't find the freedom of strangers a worthwhile exchange for their sacrifice."

 

"You're wrong," snapped the boy, his feminine face and features ablaze with a spark that felt achingly familiar. "The people know that the monarchy is a wreckage; they know that giving their lives will result in their families free and their children, wives, sisters and brothers fed and clothed. The bourgeoise will not take all the money for pointless folly; the people will be equal and happy. What are a few lives in exchange for that?"

 

"A few lives is an understatement. Many have died before in revolutions, and history forgot about them. How old were you during the June Rebellion? Five? Six? You wouldn't know what it was like even if you could leave the house in those few days."

 

"I was ten, thank you very much," he stated, thin lips paling from the deep red they were normally, as though they were burnt .

 

"Exactly. The gunshots, the screams, the knowledge that everyone who had pledged themselves to a hopeless cause had either died, fled, or were otherwise hurt in such a way that they could never fit into society again would never be worth your goals. I know the cause all too well; someone I knew once would often preach them incessantly."

 

"I'd like to meet them," replied the revolutionary.

 

The man barked out a laugh. It was gravelly from drink and grated against the group's ears. "He's dead. Killed on the very barricade he led the building of."

 

"He must have changed the world."

 

"He didn't."

 

A member of the group stood, bringing attention to him. "Should we adjourn this meeting?" he asked, his bespectacled face impartial and purely curious. "We have overrun, and some of our members have classes early tomorrow."

 

The revolutionary nodded. After they had all left, aside from their leader, the man slumped back into his chair and traced the patterns of the wooden table with his index finger.

 

"Can I ask you some questions?" the blonde boy asked.

 

The man shrugged, before taking a long drink. "Go ahead."

 

"Why did you do that?"

 

The man looked up and smirked, blue meeting blue, though one pair were steely and the other melancholic. Such a dissonance in expression threw the revolutionary off, and he suppressed a gasp. "Pick holes in everything you said?" He nodded. "I don't want to see anyone else die for futile reasons such as revolution again."

 

"Again?"

 

"You were ten at that time."

 

"Oh."

 

The boy walked to the door uneasily, when the drunk man took a long sip from his bottle and called, "I thought you were going to ask me some questions."

 

"I was. I wasn't sure how to continue."

 

With another bitter laugh, the man folded his arms. "You're not going to lead a revolution like that. What's your name, anyway?"

 

"Durant," replied the boy. The fire was illuminated in his eyes again. "And you?"

 

"Enjolras."

**Author's Note:**

> So yay? I wrote this a while back. My tumblr is nokama and my writing tumblr is nuvafirestorm.


End file.
